Expecting His Baby

by Sandra Field

  No wonder she’d been unable to refuse Judd’s request to try to cure Emmy of her nightmares. What choice had she had?

  For as long as Lise could remember, all Marthe’s love had been wrapped up in her exquisitely beautiful daughter, Angeline; finally, when the hurt had threatened to overwhelm her, Lise had worked out that there was no love left over for a stray niece. Yet, out of a sense of duty, Lise still dropped in to visit her aunt, who lived with a succession of maids and housekeepers in the same ugly mansion in a French area of the city.

  This vibrant mix of cultures, French and English, was one of the things Lise enjoyed most about Montreal, a city built on an island in the wide St Lawrence River; in her leisure time she loved its bistros and brasseries, the liveliness of its music and its joie de vivre. And it was home to her now; she’d lived here for twenty-one of her twenty-eight years.

  Half an hour later, having left her gear at her apartment, Lise was ringing the doorbell of Marthe’s house. The maid led Lise to a formal parlor at the back of the house, where Marthe was sitting in a pale wash of sunlight writing a letter. She was wearing a black wool skirt with an impeccable blue twinset, as pale a blue as her eyes; her pearls were perfectly matched, her gray hair rigidly curled. “Hello, Tante,” Lise said pleasantly. “Is this a good time for a visit?”

  Marthe offered a powdered cheek to be kissed and ostentatiously folded the letter so Lise couldn’t read it. “Of course,” she said. “As you know, the hours are long for me.”

  Resolutely refusing to feel guilty, Lise said cheerfully, “Even though it’s cold out, the sun is lovely. Are you writing to Angeline?”

  “I haven’t heard from her for nearly two weeks,” Marthe said fretfully, “and I get no satisfaction when I call the château, she’s always out or unavailable. Mind you, her social life is very important, she mixes with the very best people, as you know. Last week she was on a Mediterranean cruise with the Count and Countess of…”

  Marthe was launched; Lise settled in to listen and ask the occasional question. Angeline was now in her mid-thirties and did very little modeling, preferring to devote herself to the jet-set crowd. It must be—Lise did a quick calculation—four years since Angeline had spared time on one of her rushed Montreal visits to get in touch with Lise by telephone; there hadn’t been the opportunity for a visit. It had been around the period when the custody of Emmy had been settled; she could recall the conversation as clearly as if it were yesterday.

  “Emmy will be with Judd,” Angeline had said, a break in her beautifully modulated voice.

  “Not with you?” Lise asked, appalled.

  “Only for the occasional holiday.”

  “But, Angeline, isn’t a child’s place with her mother?”

  “Judd will be good to her, I’m sure.”

  Angeline was crying, Lise was certain of it. “I can’t believe he’d take her from you,” she burst out.

  “I have to believe it will be for the best,” Angeline whispered.

  “The man’s heartless! Heartless and horrible.”

  “I don’t want to fight him—there’d be so much publicity, and Emmy would be harmed by that.”

  “You’re so generous,” Lise exclaimed. “Poor little Emmy.”

  “Please, Lise, let’s talk about something else,” Angeline said, her voice quivering. “Have you seen the latest Donna Karan collection? I’m ordering one of everything—absolutely fabulous use of line and color.”

  “You’re also very brave,” Lise said forthrightly. “And yes, I did see an article in a magazine about her collection, rave reviews everywhere…”

  With a jerk she came back to the present, to Marthe saying crossly, “Really, Lise, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “I was thinking about Angeline,” Lise said truthfully. “About how brave she was when Emmy went to Judd’s custody.”

  “Judd!” Marthe spat. “He manipulated every one of his legal connections, and used to the hilt the fact that Angeline was moving to France. As if that would have made any difference to a three-year-old.”

  “I’ve met Emmy…she has Angeline’s eyes,” Lise said. “As you probably know, there was a fire three days ago at Judd’s house—I was part of the crew.”

  Marthe clutched the arm of her chair with her arthritic, diamond-encrusted fingers. “Judd Harwood ruined my daughter’s life. Once a month the child comes here for Sunday lunch, and that’s all the contact I’m allowed.”

  One more strike against Judd, that he would keep his daughter from her grandmother as well as her mother. “Do you find Emmy shy?” Lise asked diplomatically.

  “The child barely says a word. He’s poisoned her against me, I know he has.”

  “How long since Angeline’s seen her?”

  “She finds it terribly painful to see her,” Marthe replied. “Angeline was always so sensitive. As sensitive as she’s beautiful.” She gave Lise’s casual attire and flaming curls a disparaging look. “It’s unfortunate you didn’t inherit the same looks, Lise. Of course my sister was no beauty.”

  Inwardly Lise winced; disparaging comparisons between her and her cousin had always been one of Marthe’s themes. How could red hair and green eyes compare with Angeline’s svelte blond elegance? She said lightly, “Well, we can’t all be world-famous models, Tante.”

  “I’d hoped to go to France for Easter. But Angeline’s put that visit off, something to do with Henri’s schedule.”

  Marthe’s mouth was a discontented line. “Perhaps she’ll come this way instead,” Lise suggested.

  “She hasn’t mentioned that as a possibility. But then she’s so busy…three weeks ago she went to Monaco for a wedding, I have pictures here from one of the society magazines.”

  Marthe was an avid collector of clippings; obediently Lise admired the gathering of glossy aristocrats in their designer outfits. Angeline, as always, looked radiant; she was on the arm of an Italian newspaper magnate. “Henri was busy with the vineyard,” Marthe sniffed. “Naturally Angeline never lacks for escorts—something Judd willfully misconstrued as infidelity.” Viciously she dug her nails into the brocade arm of her chair. “As if Angeline would break her vows. And as if he were innocent in that respect. You have no idea what my poor daughter suffered from that man.”

  Judd no doubt kissed every woman as though there was no tomorrow, Lise thought painfully. Today he’d tried to tell her she was special; but the words meant nothing. His entire history mitigated against any such possibility. She said in a neutral voice, “He’s very attractive.”

  “Angeline was so young when she met him. Young and impressionable. If I’d known then what I know now, I would never have allowed the match to happen.”

  Lise rather doubted this; Marthe had always given her daughter everything she wanted, and all those years ago there had been no doubt that Angeline wanted Judd. At thirteen, Lise had been quite acute enough to know that.

  Luckily the maid entered the room with a silver tea tray, preventing Lise from following her train of thought; the conversation limped along, and half an hour later, Lise stood up to go. Marthe presented the same cool cheek, and with a feeling of strong relief, Lise started to walk home.

  She needed the exercise; even more, she needed to exorcise Marthe’s chronic discontent. But everything she’d learned today had only confirmed what she already knew: Judd had treated his wife disgracefully. There wasn’t a worry in the world that she herself would fall for him. Not again.

  Her foot skidded on a patch of ice. Judd wasn’t all bad, though. She would swear he loved Emmy. Unless he was a consummate actor, his pain and helplessness in the face of the little girl’s nightmares had been all too real.

  Stop thinking about him, Lise scolded herself. You’ll never see him again and that’s the way it should be. So get on with your life, and figure out what you’re going to do next. Quit your job? Work in a bookstore? Take a veterinary assistant’s course? Or spend all your savings to lie on a beach in the Caribbean
and feel the sun on your face?

  No way. She couldn’t afford to do that.

  When Lise finally reached her own street, the first thing she saw was Dave’s battered Honda parked outside her apartment block. As she hurried into the lobby, he was pushing her buzzer. “Hi,” she said warmly, pleased to see him; he was so uncomplicated, so straightforward after Judd.

  He grinned at her; although she did notice with faint unease that he looked unusually tense. “I was just visiting my aunt,” she added, “and decided to walk home.”

  “Want to go to the bistro for a bite?”

  “Love to.”

  But when they were seated across from each other, twining the cheese from onion soup around their spoons, Lise said abruptly, “What’s up? You don’t seem yourself.”

  “I’m not. There’s something I want to ask you.”

  His brown eyes looked at her without guile; but his fingers were clamped around his soup spoon as though it were an ax he might use to break down a door. “Go ahead,” she said slowly.

  “We’ve dated quite a bit, Lise. Gone to movies and house parties, had meals together.” He gazed at his whole wheat roll as if he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “I’ve kissed you good night. Sometimes we hold hands. But that’s it. Something has always stopped me—”

  “Dave, I—”

  “No, let me finish.” He looked up. “You’re off for the next few days and I’ve got five days’ vacation I have to take before the end of March. Let’s go away together, Lise. To a cabin in the Laurentians. To a fancy hotel in Quebec City. It doesn’t really matter where. I just want to spend time with you.” He covered her hand with his. “I want to go to bed with you.”

  Her lashes dropped to hide her eyes. Twice in one day, she thought in dismay, and wished with all her heart that Dave hadn’t chosen tonight, of all nights, to break the silence of years. She gazed down at his hand. She could feel its weight, its warmth, of course she could. But she felt no desire to press it to her cheek, to trace the lines in his palm with her tongue. To hold it and never let go. If it had been Judd’s hand…in a confused rush, she muttered, “That’s sweet of you. But—”

  “I’m doing this all wrong,” Dave announced. He suddenly stood up, came around to her side of the table and pulled her to her feet. Then he kissed her very thoroughly and with obvious enjoyment.

  Lise stood still in his embrace, discovering within herself a strong urge to weep. Because she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then Dave released her and stepped back. Someone gave a wolf whistle from one of the other tables. Ignoring it, Dave urged, “Say yes, Lise. Please say yes.”

  “I can’t, Dave,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”

  “Why not? We can go away together, see what happens. No pressure, just spend some time with each other.”

  She had to end this. “I’m not in love with you,” she said desperately. “Not the least bit. So I can’t go away with you, it would be wrong for both of us—I could never give you what you want.”

  She could feel the stillness in his body; his fingers were clamped around hers with something of the strength with which he’d hauled her through the burning window at Judd’s house. Lise added with a weak smile, “Your soup’s getting cold.”

  “You really mean it, don’t you?” As she nodded unhappily, Dave demanded, “Is there someone else?”

  “No!” How could she possibly tell him what happened to her when she came within ten feet of a man she despised? “I’m really sorry,” she muttered. “But I know I’m right. You’re my friend, Dave. And that’s all I want.”

  Dave dropped his hands to his sides, sat down and automatically started to eat again. Lise sat down as well. Her shoulder was aching and she felt as though the day had gone on entirely too long. But she couldn’t walk out on Dave; he deserved better than that. Valiantly she tried to talk about work and the snowstorm that was predicted, and when the waiter finally brought the bill, she could have cried with relief. Dave then drove her home. Pulling up outside her building, he said stiffly, “I’d rather we didn’t date for a while. If it’s all the same to you.”

  “So we won’t be friends anymore?”

  “Someday. Just not right now.”

  “I’m thinking of quitting the job anyway.”

  She hadn’t meant to tell Dave that. He said incredulously, “Quit? What for? What else would you do?”

  “I’m tired. I’ve done this job for ten years and I’ve had enough. I need a break. A rest.”

  “Good thing the rest of us don’t feel that way.”

  She said more strongly, “Don’t lay guilt trips on me, Dave, please. Look, I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself, won’t you? And I’m truly sorry.”

  Before he could answer, Lise got out of his car and hurried indoors. By the time she’d opened the inner security door, Dave had driven away. She ran up the stairs to her floor, unlocked her apartment door, closed it behind her and sagged against it. She’d hurt Dave. A lot, by the look of his face. What was the matter with her? She couldn’t respond to a good man who was dependable and brave; yet a man who manipulated those closest to him as though they were pieces on a chessboard had awoken her body to passion and hunger.

  There was no sense in it. No sense whatsoever.

  Lise woke the next morning to a leaden sky and a forecast for snow and freezing rain. In the cool morning light one fact seemed inescapable: she’d probably lost Dave’s friendship last night. Which hurt. A lot.

  One more reason to quit her job, she decided. The only bright spot in the day was that her shoulder felt better; nor was it quite so luridly hued. She’d phone a couple of friends to see if they were free for lunch; and then she’d go shopping. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping: a motto Lise had always rather approved of. It beat taking aspirin.

  After her shower, Lise pulled on her robe, which was full-length, made of fuchsia-colored fleece, and clashed with her hair. Fuchsia made a statement, she thought, grinning at herself in the mirror. Although maybe not a fashion statement. At least, not one Angeline would approve of.

  Her hair, still damp, stood out in a cloud around her head. She’d buy a paper while she was out, and check the job market; she’d also phone the technology institute that ran the course to become a vet’s assistant. What she wouldn’t do was sit around bemoaning the loss of Dave…or think about Judd winging south with Emmy. No future in that.

  Lise was cutting into a honeydew melon for breakfast when the doorbell rang. The knife slipped, slicing her index finger rather than the melon. She mouthed a very pungent word under her breath. Surely it wasn’t Dave, hoping she’d changed her mind. Wrapping a wad of tissues around her hand, she went to the door. But her finger was bleeding rather profusely; trying to tighten the tissue, which was already splotched with red, she undid the latch and said, “Dave, I—oh. It’s you.”

  “Yeah,” said Judd, “it’s me. What have you done to your finger?”

  “It’s only a cut.”

  In two seconds he was in the door, had deposited a suitcase on the floor, and was wrapping a pristine white handkerchief around her finger. Lise tried to pull free. “You’ll ruin your handkerchief—don’t make such a fuss!”

  “Head for the bathroom,” Judd ordered. “My turn to rescue you.”

  “I don’t need rescuing,” she retorted through gritted teeth. “And what are you doing here anyway?”

  He said with a sudden, charming grin, “Oh, hadn’t you guessed? I’m kidnapping you. Or, to be more accurate, Emmy and I are kidnapping you. She’s waiting downstairs in the limo—we’re on our way to the airport.”

  “Rich people don’t do the kidnapping—they get kidnapped,” Lise said peevishly, and allowed herself to be pulled in the direction of the bathroom, where in short order Judd taped her finger. He did it in a very businesslike manner; Lise concentrated her thoughts on ten-foot snowbanks and the Antarctic ice cap.

  “There,” he said. Then, taking his time, he surveyed her f
rom head to foot. “You sure like bright colors.”

  She grimaced. “As a kid, I always inherited Angeline’s clothes. Pastels that looked fabulous on her and made me look like a sick puppy.”

  With sudden violence Judd thrust his hands into the soft, tangled mass of her curls. “We always come back to Angeline, don’t we?” he muttered. “I’ll tell you one thing—you’re as different from her as fuchsia is from pale pink.” Then he bent his head to kiss her, his tongue laving her lips, demanding entrance.

  Lise stood as rigid as a post; and this time she thought about Angeline, and about Emmy sleeping in the attic because she was lonely for her father. Suddenly, with all her strength, she pushed away from Judd, wrenching her head free. How dare he take her for granted? Assume that she was panting to be kissed by him? “Go to Dominica, Judd Harwood,” she seethed. “Or go to hell. I don’t care where you go as long as you’re out of this apartment in two seconds flat!”

  “Go get dressed, Lise,” he countered, and to her fury she saw that he was laughing at her. “Anything’ll do. Bring sunglasses.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. I’m not going to Dominica with you!”

  “You’ve got to. Emmy’s expecting you.”

  “Emmy doesn’t care one way or the other what I do.”

  “I asked her if she wanted you to come.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Judd hesitated, remembering the actual words of that conversation with unfortunate accuracy. “Would you like Lise to go away with us, Emmy?” he’d asked.

  “If you want her to.”

  “I’m asking about you. What you want.”

  Emmy said elliptically, “Her hair’s really pretty.”

  “It is, isn’t it? She works hard at her job, Emmy, I’m sure she could do with a holiday.”

  “She’s nicer than Eleanor.”

  Judd winced. He’d dated Eleanor, daughter of an earl, just long enough to discover she had ice water in her veins and disliked small children. “I think Lise liked you,” he ventured, and received in return one of Emmy’s silent, inscrutable looks.